Ninth Gate: Reminiscence
by vanillafluffy
Summary: The end of "The Ninth Gate" was only the beginning of trouble for Dean Corso. A meeting with an old friend sheds light on his mysterious past.


**Obligatory mumbo-jumbo: **I don't own anything you recognize from the book or movie,** The Ninth Gate**. Please don't sue me, it would be an expensive waste of time.

If you just got here, you might want to read my stories, **Ninth Gate: Corso's Choice** first, followed by **Fortune Foretold** to have a better idea of how Corso survived the end of the movie and what's been going on with him since then.

I will be beginning a **Ninth Gate/American Gods** (excellant novel by Neil Gaiman!) crossover soon. The narrative will settle down to one point of view and it will become multi-part at that time. Thanks as always for reading and reviewing, hope you enjoy it!

vanillafluffy

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From: jjsutphen 

To: kdowen

Subject: Heads up, girlfriend!

Kerri --

Hi! Thought I'd better let you know, I gave out your e-mail address to somebody I ran into who needs the kind of help he won't get from traditional medicine. He might not contact you--he said he's not up to travel, which I believe--he looked terrible, I know he's the same age I am, but he looks at least ten years older. I feel bad for thinking his kharma's caught up to him at last--especially since what I caught a glimpse of scared me silly.

I'm probably not making much sense, am I? I'll start at the beginning. I was in Paris--just one of my little bi-monthly getaways, with darling Virgil's blessing--and I went into my favorite bookstore. At first, I wasn't paying attention to the only other patron--then he asked the clerk about the price of something, and his voice sounded familiar.

Did I ever tell you about the guy I used to go with in college who really screwed me over? He was a library sciences major named Dean Corso, and we were an item for two years and four months. Then one weekend, we were wandering around New England back roads and came across the original little old lady's moving sale. Not only was her house so old George Washington slept there, she looked like she was old enough to be the gal George was sleeping with at the time. I fell in love with an old trunk she had--it was when I was furnishing my first apartment--the lock was stuck; she couldn't get it open, but said there was just junk inside. To make a long story short, Dean and I each put up $20 and agreed I'd get the trunk, he'd get the contents. I think he was humoring me to begin with, but when we jimmied the latch it turned out that the contents were a bunch of old books. Old RARE books.

I didn't know that. I dusted the trunk off; Dean scooped up the books and stuff, and the next thing I knew, he'd quit his three part-time jobs, gotten himself a sporty little car, dumped me and started dating debutantes. As soon as he had his degree, he set himself up as a finder of classic books and turned that into a cash cow of a career. (I still have the trunk; it's in my office, I file old manuscripts in it.) I kept bumping into Dean when I was still living in the 'States; there are advantages to being an expatriate, this is the first time I've seen him in at least ten years. It almost didn't hurt.

Do you know how he refers to the kind of books I write? "Airport books." According to him, there are three kinds of books in the world: the kind of rare, hand-bound, leather-tooled tomes that he recues for the obscenely rich, reference books, and the kind of drivel that people grab in airports to keep their minds occupied inflight.

Okay, you're right, I'm getting side-tracked again. Deep breath, back to the subject: me, Paris, bookstore, Dean-I-am-a-self-centered-rat-bastard-Corso, who looked wasted. Not stoned wasted, wasting away. His aura--not that he ever believed me when I talked about auras or vibrations or anything spiritual, he'd just smile that condescending smile of his--it was the most awful, murky-looking toxic aura I've ever seen. It reminded me of when Virgil's dad had cancer, and they were giving him massive doses of radiation and he just...faded away. That's what it was like. And I may not like Dean, but oh my Goddess, he's forty-one and he's dying horribly, and that isn't the worst of it.

He was telling me about these migraines he's been having, and seizures--he's been to a bunch of specialists (He's gotten to the point where he refers to them by number: "Doctor Four said this, Doctor Six prescribed that....".) and none of them has a clue what's wrong. Oh, they've ruled out lots of stuff--he says it isn't AIDS or a brain tumor or mad cow disease or numerous other things I've never even heard of--he's on meds for the seizures and it's not helping at all, and pain pills for the headaches, which haven't let up in weeks. He was saying that bright lights are a trigger for the seizures, not just flashing lights like with normal epilepsy.

It was so bad I could feel the pain coming off of him in waves from five feet away. Why so far, you ask? Because I, being the little Girl Scout that I am, solicitously guided him back into the dimness that houses books on economics, thinking he might be a trifle more comfortable in the cavelike gloom.

That was when I saw it--there was a mark on his forehead, like tarnished silver, right over his third-eye chakra.

I said, "What IS that?" which was stupid of me, since Dean is a completely pragmatic rationalist who is about as Sensitive as an earthworm--quite possibly less so.

And of course, he said "What's what?" and I reluctantly described it to him; I drew three downward slashes with my first three fingers down my forehead and waited for one last smirk out of him. But he didn't. He got even paler, which I wouldn't have thought possible. Clearly, that meant something to him, and he looked terrified.

The awful thing gave me such a case of cold chills that I automatically cast a shield spell, and he doubled up and almost passed out then and there. So obviously, whatever's wrong with him isn't just sensitive to visible light. Whatever it is isn't just physical, or maybe I should really say that if the physical manifestation is this bad, the psychic damage must be truly horrendous. Forgive me, Kerri, but I gave him your e-mail addy. You're the strongest person I know, the only person I could think of who might be able to help, or at least point him in the right direction.

He tried to thank me--I think he was going to hug me, but I couldn't, I just couldn't. Whatever nastiness he's gotten himself into, I want no part of. I don't know if that kind of taint can rub off, but I wasn't going to take the chance. I backed into a bookcase and almost panicked. Then he stopped and took a step away. He was staring at me with the most hurt look on his face--and believe me, Dean does not let himself show vulnerability. He's a polite stoic.

We said very awkward good-byes, and I went into the first church I passed on the way back to my hotel and blessed myself and okay, I lit a candle for Dean Corso. I think he needs all the help he can get.

I don't know if there's anything you or anybody else can do, but I don't hate him--certainly not enough to let that happen to him. I had to do something. Hope it was the right thing!

Love to all the Circle Sisters--I miss you gals rotten!

Blessed Be,

Jessica


End file.
